


The Ice Pop Affair

by YumYumPM



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E.
Genre: M/M, Paranormal
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-28
Updated: 2014-05-28
Packaged: 2018-01-26 22:16:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,295
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1704506
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/YumYumPM/pseuds/YumYumPM
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Previously Published in The YumYum Affairs Collection<br/>under the title "The Illyacicle Affair</p><p>Illya's body is attacked by an insidious drug.  The only way to save him is to freeze him until a cure can be found.  The only problem is the one person that might have a chance is to figure things out is ... Illya.  And he'll need Napoleon's help to do it.</p><p>(I have an original manpic that was made for this story.  If you'd like to see it go to http://yumyumpm.livejournal.com/tag/the%20ice%20pop%20affair)</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Ice Pop Affair

Once upon a time in a land far, far away - New York City to be exact - there lived an elderly gentleman, his age uncertain. He could be in his fifties, sixties, or even his hundreds. No one would put it past him. He had done a great many things in his youth and had now reached the height of his career as head of an organization that went by the acronym of the U.N.C.L.E. - which stood for the United Network Command for Law and Enforcement. A job he took very seriously.

He even managed to marry. A very understanding woman, who understood the complexities of his job and supported him in every way, and if the job did play havoc with their marriage, she had known that going into the marriage. Though they never had children, there were nieces and nephews abound. She had her garden club, her bridge, and her hairdresser appointments. If she missed having children, she never said.

As for himself, he sometimes felt that all his employees were his children. While they sometimes exasperated him, like all parents he had his favorites even though he knew he should not. One pair in particular were as unlike one another as night and day.

One was dark, handsome, gregarious, a womanizer, and American. The other was light, cute rather than handsome (though no one dared tell him that to his face, not even his partner), moody, less prone to sexual pleasures (or so it was assumed), and Russian. 

The American grew up surrounded by wealth, one grandfather being an Ambassador, another an Admiral, and had traveled extensively in his youth. 

Little was known of the Russian’s youth. If he confided in his partner about it, it was a well-kept secret. It was known that he had attended several universities, receiving a degree in quantum mechanics, and that he spoke several languages fluently, and, above all, loved blowing things up. 

In spite of everything, the two men worked well together, complementing each other in a way that covered any weaknesses they might possess. 

They were U.N.C.L.E.’s top enforcement team; battling evil in whatever form it might appear. Each was able to carry out any assignment on their own, but together they were unbeatable. There had been a time when Alexander Waverly thought the two men psychic, because with every assignment, when one would find trouble the other always managed to be close enough to get him out of it. But that theory was mostly disproved by the number of times that they could have avoided trouble had they been psychicly in touch with one another.

Waverly always prided himself on being able to assign them separate missions or not. There came a time when he had badly miscalculated. Their last assignment being a case in point.

***

They had stripped him bare. Clothes, communicator, gadgets, knives, gizmos - everything - then they had thrown him into this freezer, tied hand and foot. Then the needle piercing his rump. He had no idea what they had injected into him. He heard himself whimpering, felt tears that were being shed freeze to his face. No one would miss him, not for two days. That hurt the most. The fact that no one would care if he were gone, he was expendable. Frankly, that it hurt surprised him. He thought his feelings long ago frozen as well. Odd - there was soft sweet music rafting though the air, calling him home.

Strong hands were pulling him from the freezer. “Time to … you out … here … luv,” a voice said. Napoleon? Couldn't be, Napoleon never called him luv! He shivered, his body still several degrees colder then it should be. Hands were cutting the bindings holding his hands and feet together, rubbing his body trying to bring back the circulation.

***

Napoleon, his gun drawn, moved swiftly through the compound, surprised at finding it empty. His partner should be somewhere in this maze of offices. He had to be. Napoleon didn’t ask himself how he knew, he just knew. He came to the kitchen, looked around and turned to leave when something about the freezer caught his eye. Trusting his gut instinct, he opened the door to find a small body almost stiff with cold. The blond hair, frozen in spikes, the skin turning a lighter shade of blue then those of his eyes. His eyelids were frozen shut and signs of tears remained frozen on his cheeks. What had they done to him? How long had he been in there? 

“Oh my God! Hold on. It is time to get you out of here, Illya,” he spoke softly, his breath floating out in front of him, as he gripped his partner under his armpit, dragging him from the freezer. He had to get him warm, but there was nothing he could use close. Without a minute’s thought, he stripped himself of his clothing and wrapped himself around the unmoving body. Using his hands, they roaming over the frozen body, trying to get him warm again. Little bit by little bit, he felt the stiffened flesh soften, warming up. For one fearful moment, he thought his partner had stopped breathing. Fearing the worse he turned the blond head toward him.

Illya’s eyelashes remained frozen to his face. Napoleon blew his warm breath over them, watching the crystalline spears melt. Illya’s mouth was blue and cold to the touch and Napoleon pressed his warm lips to them. When the inflexible lips softened, he ran his warm tongue over them, asking admittance, ready to breath for him should he stop. He sighed with relief when a purring sound emerged from the blue lips.  
As Illya’s body grew less stiff, Napoleon moved away. His intention was to dress and get them out of there. Once separated, though, Illya began to shiver violently. Napoleon, now dressed in his slacks and t-shirt, quickly decided to use as much of his clothing as he could afford to cover him. Gathering up his white shirt, he slipped it onto his partner, amazed once again at how much smaller the slender man was then he. The shirttail covered him down to mid-thigh, and the cuffs of the sleeves hung over the cold fingers. It would have to do for now, he sighed, then donated his socks to cover the cold feet. Shrugging into his jacket, he bent down and picked his partner up, slinging him over his shoulder in order to keep his gun arm free. 

Working his way back through the building as swiftly as one could while carrying dead weight, Napoleon was surprised by the ease in which it was accomplished. There should have been a few guards, but there seemed to be none. Once he was sure they were far enough away, Napoleon withdrew his communicator and contacted U.N.C.L.E. for backup.

Illya was still shivering, so while sitting there waiting for backup to arrive, Napoleon took off his coat to cover up the parts of Illya still showing. Napoleon didn’t know if it was shock setting in, or if the younger man was still feeling the effects of the freezer. Either way, he tried his best to make him comfortable.

Napoleon looked up to the dark sky and thanked his lucky stars. Luck that had brought him back from his assignment early, luck that had caused him to check his pockets as he was leaving the airport before snagging a cab, intending to head directly to U.N.C.L.E. headquarters. Sometime between leaving the plane and arriving at the exit door, someone had slipped a note into his pocket. The note that had informed him that his partner was in danger. He had quickly changed his destination, having the cab driver drop him off several blocks away from the address in question. 

The mop-up van showed up within twenty minutes. Napoleon filled them in briefly. The medic looked the Russian over, deciding it was best to get him to medical as soon as possible. 

Napoleon weighed staying behind and helping in the search against returning to headquarter with his partner. Going back with Illya won hands down. He had no sooner climbed into the back of the van then it pulled away and he almost fell backwards. Getting a grip on something, he hung on as they sped back to headquarters, making the trip in record time. This alone told him that his partner was in more dire straights then he had previously thought. 

Much preferring to follow his partner, Napoleon nevertheless made his way to Alexander Waverly’s office as ordered. He stood, rather then sat, as he gave a concise report of his last assignment and his reason for deviating to the location where he had rescued his partner.

Waverly was not pleased. “Sit down, Mr. Solo. There are more details that I need.”

“But Illya …, sir?” Napoleon protested.

“Is being taken care of. Now sit down,” Waverly insisted.

Napoleon wavered, every fiber in his being wanted to be with his partner. In the end, however, he sat down for thirty minutes, going over every detail that Waverly wanted. Thirty minutes wasted as he wondered if that van ride had been the last chance he had to see his partner alive.

Finally, he was dismissed. Allowed to leave, he hurried to the medical wing. The news was not good. Besides suffering from a concussion, Illya was suffering from hypothermia, and his heart had tried to stop twice. He was shallow and he was now on a respirator, as well. Napoleon, with a sinking feeling, stood to one side as the doctors worked desperately to find out what was wrong. Blood samples were drawn and sent down to the lab, top priority. The lab results came back, unknown. Whatever the Russian agent had been injected with, it was shutting down his white blood cells, then attacking the red and inhibiting the oxygen supply to his brain. None of which Napoleon understood. After what felt like days instead of hours, a promising antidote was developed and the doctors reluctantly injected the young agent. There was nothing more they could do.

The next twenty-four hours were crucial. The doctors informed Napoleon that there was nothing more to be done and suggested he go home, but he stayed. He was still there when forty-eight hours later the blue eyes of his partner finally opened.

Three weeks later

Illya Kuryakin, his muscles still not fully cooperating, entered Solo’s office and placed his final report on the desk, but rather than turning and leaving he stood there. Weeks of physical therapy had him almost back to normal, however, he was still not field certified and according to the doctor’s report, he might never be. That could mean transferring to another section, perhaps R & D. That did not bother him greatly, not nearly as much as his dreams. Lately they had taken on a bizarre turn. 

Solo, who was deep into paper work, glanced up. “Yes? Was there something else?”

Kuryakin hesitated. He was uncomfortable with what he wanted to say, but he needed to tell someone. “I had a very unusual dream last night.”

Solo’s eyebrows rose upward, he leaned back in his chair. “Have a seat.”

Illya sat, not sure where to start. He stared down at his hands. “We were … we were having … sex.”

Napoleon was startled. After a moment, he asked, “With whom?”

Illya glanced up for just a second before returning his gaze back to his hands. He took a deep breath. “With each other.”

Another moment passed, Napoleon responded calmly, “That is unusual.”

Illya looked up. Napoleon was sitting back, his pen poised to his lips, his features relaxed. Illya had expected laughter or anger, not a calm acceptance, and was even more surprised when Napoleon asked, “Did we enjoy it?” He bit his lip, his stomach churning, but he answered truthfully, “Yes.”

“Do you have any idea what … prompted it?” Napoleon asked, waving the pen. “Your dream?”

Illya leaned back, glad to get it off his chest and relieved that his partner was not angry. “No, not the foggiest.”

Napoleon got up and moved around his desk, sitting on one corner. He cleared his throat. “Soooo, what are your plans?”

Illya shifted uncomfortably; he did not have any plans. “I’m afraid I have not thought that far.” His dreams had disturbed him, he still was not sure what compelled him to inform his partner and he hadn’t wanted to talk to the staff psychologist. His only regret was that it might affect their working relationship.

“Perhaps you would you care to meet me at my place?” Napoleon asked. “To explore the … possibilities?”

What possibilities? “Why your place?” came out before Illya could bite it back.

“Fine. Your place, eight o’clock?” Napoleon said dismissively as he moved back around his desk, returning to his paper work.

Illya stood up, frozen for several minutes before leaving the office. Just what was it he had let himself in for?

***

Kuryakin stood in the middle of the living area of his apartment, his hands running through his hair. There were books and paper scattered everywhere. What ever had possessed him to suggest meeting here? He had just started straightening the room when a familiar tapping was heard at the door. Opening it, he stepped aside as Napoleon breezed past him.

Solo stopped near the center of the room, his sharp eyes taking everything in. “I like what you’ve done with the place,” he quipped.

“Very funny,” Illya muttered as he picked up a pile of papers, intending to put them away. Instead he sat on the edge of his sofa. “I am not sure this is a good idea.”

Napoleon was wandering around the room, picking up a piece of paper, or a book, studying it before putting it back down; he seemed nervous. “I think I may know what prompted your dream.” 

“You do?” Illya eyebrows rose in surprise.

Napoleon finally settled for sitting on the arm of a chair, there being no seats available. “What do you remember of your rescue?” he asked quietly.

Illya’s forehead furrowed as he concentrated. “Not a whole lot,” he admitted. “I thought I heard your voice.” The memory of hearing Napoleon say “Illya luv” rang in his ear. 

“You were frozen stiff. The only way I could think of to warm you was using my body.” Napoleon confessed. “I think … I’m pretty sure …”

Illya looked to one side, his mind trying to recapture that time. Vaguely he recalled hands stroking him, warming his body, and something else. “Did you by any chance … kiss me?”

Napoleon looked startled, then he cleared his throat and laughed uncertainly. “I suppose it could have been interpreted that way. I thought you had stopped breathing.”

“And you were giving me mouth-to-mouth resuscitation.” Illya realized. “My apologies for thinking otherwise.”

“Don’t apologize,” Napoleon protested. “Under different circumstances, it could have been …” he turned red as he realized what he had just let slip.

“You mean you have considered …?” 

“Possibly … perhaps,” Napoleon said before stating the truth. “Yes.”

Illya stared at his partner, amazement written on his face. “I would never have thought it of you.” Though considering Napoleon’s sexual experience he should not be surprised.

“Would that you had,” Napoleon murmured absently before turning a self-conscious grin on his partner. “Your dream … to me it seemed like a golden opportunity.” He paused at the look of incredulity on Illya’s face. “The entire time, I couldn’t help but enjoy the feeling of …” He paused again, Illya was being way too silent. “You are taking this whole thing rather well.” Napoleon crossed his arms, his eyes narrowed as he asked, “Exactly what were we doing in this dream?” and was surprised by Illya’s reluctance to look at him. “Your ears are turning red.”

Only his ears, Illya wondered. He felt a flush rising over his entire body as he remembered the dream. He could not, would not, was definitely not about to tell the details of his dream, in this language or any other.

“Umm,” Napoleon pursed his lips, embarrassed. Perhaps he had misread the situation, letting his desires read more into it then there was. Getting up to leave he nodded. “Well if you’re not interested.” He stopped, his hand on the doorknob, when Illya, in a strangled voice, called after him, “Napoleon?” He slowly turned back to find his partner, his expression dour, headed for the bedroom. “I wish you did not look as if you are going to a funeral,” Napoleon complained quietly as he followed the Russian.

He was pleased to note that the bedroom was nicely done. Not cluttered, as was the living area. The two men stood silently by the bed, Napoleon waiting to follow his partner’s lead. Illya reached down to pull the knit shirt over his head.

Napoleon took off his jacket and started to loosen his tie. Something was not right. He paused, and then reached out his arm to stay his friend’s action. How to explain that undressing, jumping into bed and mutual groping was not what he had in mind? Nor using any of the techniques that worked so well with women in the past. A glimmer of an idea occurred to him. “Let’s do this differently.”

Differently from what? Illya’s expression asked as he lowered his shirt and watched as Napoleon slid back into his jacket and straightened his tie. He followed, puzzled, as Napoleon strolled determinedly to the door. “Where are we going?’

Napoleon stopped, his hand on the doorknob. “To the movies,” he answered as he ushered the bewildered Russian out.

Illya was not a one-night stand, and Napoleon did not intend to treat this as such. His normal seduction technique usually included dinner and dancing. So maybe dancing was out, however a movie might be just the thing. He drove silently along to an area where very special types of movies were shown.

Illya leaned forward looking through the windshield at the glaring red lights that lined the district they were cruising. The look he gave his partner plainly stated he must be crazy.

Napoleon pulled over around the corner from the theater he had in mind. “Tell you what. I’ll go in first and you follow,” he said not looking at the blond Russian.

Follow him? Why could they not go in together? Illya leaned toward the driver’s side as Napoleon exited the vehicle. “Napoleon…?” but Napoleon was already heading for the corner. Illya waited a few minutes and took a few deep breaths before opening the door on his side to follow his partner’s lead. Buying a ticket and schooling his features to convey that he did this all the time proved challenging.

Entering the dim lobby, he spotted Napoleon purchasing a large drink and box of popcorn at the far end. Their eyes met and Napoleon tilted his head towards the stairway leading to the balcony. Wondering what Napoleon was up to, Illya nodded his acknowledgement as he made his way up the stairs, his eyes adjusting to the darkness. Moving toward the very last row, he made his way to the middle and slouched low in the seat. Napoleon slid in next to him and minutes later passed over the popcorn and large drink.

The movie had already started and Illya looked down at the couples sitting in the sparsely populated seats below. A few were male/female, most were not. What did Napoleon have in mind? he wondered before giving his attention over to the screen. He perversely took a sip of the soda using the straw that Napoleon meant for himself, aware of the cringe it elicited from Napoleon. As the story unfolded, he blinked in surprise as he realized this was not the usual X-rated feature. It was more of a love story. A highly detailed love story.

He leaned forward and toward his partner, an idea prickling at the back of his brain. “I thought you … were experienced,” he whispered.

Napoleon leaned back. “I am. Just not with someone I work with on a day-to-day basis,” he murmured, his mouth just behind Illya’s ear.

The feeling of Napoleon’s breath behind his ear was sending a rush of excitement to Illya’s groin. When Napoleon took the drink from him and took his hand, caressing it, his breath caught. Then he spotted something below. Not something. Someone. He slumped even further down in his seat.

Napoleon looked at the yellow head sliding down in puzzlement. Illya was pointing to the viewers below. Napoleon leaned forward, his eyes searching for whoever Illya had seen. Then he spotted him. He did not remember the man’s name, but he recognized him. He also recognized the person he was with. THRUSH.

He leaned toward Illya, his hand reaching for his gun. “Contact HQ for backup,” he whispered, waiting for the confirming nod before silently making his way to the end of the row, keeping low.

Slowly Napoleon made his way down the stairs, keeping close to the wall. Peering around the stairwell and into the lobby, he waited until everyone’s attention was elsewhere before slipping into the theater proper. 

His eyes adjusted to the dimness and he quickly located the two men in question. Keeping low, he crept closer, thankful that most of the other occupants of the theater were currently occupied. Evidently, the THRUSH agent had gotten what he came for and was prepared to leave. At that moment however, Napoleon was distracted out of the corner of his eye, by the action on the big screen. The two leads, one dark-haired, the other light, were doing something that Napoleon had never imagined possible, and Solo had a vivid imagination. When he managed to pull his eyes from the screen both men had vanished.

He straightened, annoyed with himself, his gun hanging loosely at his side. His attention had been lost for only a second.

“He went out the back way,” a softly accented voice, murmured in his ear. “Foster went out the front.” 

Foster! Of course, that was the man’s name. Section Eight - Research & Development! “I’ll take the back, you take the front,” Napoleon ordered, using his gun to indicate the way he wanted his partner should go. Napoleon headed for the back entrance, determined not to be distracted. Easing the door open slightly and peeking through, he was pleased to see that the THRUSH agent had paused at the end of the alley to light a cigarette. Keeping carefully to the shadows, he followed his prey.

Napoleon was never sure what spooked the THRUSH agent. He only knew the man turned suddenly, spotted him, and darted out into the street only to be hit by a delivery truck. Suddenly, a crowd began to gather out of seemingly nowhere. He somehow managed to reach the body first. “Someone call for an ambulance.” 

Checking he body for signs of life, he realized that an ambulance would be too late. The man was dead. He surreptitiously searched the body of the dead agent, finding a card, the joker from a deck of cards with the words Wild Card printed on the face. Slipping it into his pocket, he got up, aware of the people the accident had attracted and shook his head sadly. 

Slowly he faded into the background, slipping back into the shadows and pulling out his communicator, contacting U.N.C.L.E. headquarters. “Open Channel D.”

“Your report, Mr. Solo,” the voice of Mr. Waverly requested. Napoleon looked pointedly at his communicator, surprised that at this time of night, Mr. Waverly was still at headquarters, much less responding to him directly.

“One dead THRUSH agent.”

What sounded suspiciously like a sigh came through over the communicator. “Well, I suppose it could not be helped. It would have been preferable if he could have been brought in for interrogation, Mr. Solo.”

“I’m sorry, sir. He was hit by a truck.” Amazing how the old man could make him feel that it was his fault the man died. “Has anyone heard from Illya?”

“Ah, yes. It would seem Mr. Kuryakin had better luck then you. He managed to follow … ur … ah … Mr. Foster to his apartment and is now awaiting backup. They should be picking him up at any moment and on their way here. Where you should be as well.” Abruptly Waverly broke the connection. 

Solo closed down his communicator and headed back to his car.

***

“How fortuitous that the two of you happened to spot Mr. Foster meeting with the THRUSH agent in that theater,” Alexander Waverly said approvingly as he tapped the tobacco into his pipe. 

Both agents looked uneasy. Illya picked up the card Napoleon had brought back. “Do we know what the meaning of the card is?”

“Not at the moment,” Waverly responded, lighting his pipe. He nodded to Lisa Rogers as she took the card from Illya’s hand to send to the lab to have analyzed. “Mr. Foster, I am afraid, has not proven forthcoming.”

Puffing on the pipe, he relented. “It has been a long night, gentlemen. You can submit your reports in the morning.” He waved them away dismissively. He watched as his two agents left the room. He was curious, but decided not to ask them what they were doing in an X-rated theater together after all.

***

With Napoleon at the wheel, the two men drove in silence through the streets. Dawn was peeking over the horizon as they pulled up in front of Kuryakin’s apartment building. Illya sat as close to the passenger door as he could get, staring out its window, wondering what would occur once they reached their destination.

Illya opened the door, ready to flee, when a voice tentatively calling his name stayed his movement. He turned his gaze to his partner. Napoleon was staring intently at the steering wheel, his fingers drumming nervously on the rim.

“Illya,” Napoleon repeated. “It has occurred to me that I may have badly misconstrued your interest in … our having sex.” he paused taking a deep breath. “I’d like to explain.”

Half in and half out of the car, Illya kept his voice level and responded, “Explain what? That you have gone through all the females at headquarters and have now turned your attentions to your partner?”

“No.” How to explain that when you were young and certain needs made themselves known it didn’t matter much with whom you took sexual gratification? Hooking up with someone for an evening’s pleasure, nowadays, could not only be dangerous, it could prove fatal. Napoleon opened his mouth to say it, and couldn’t. It all boiled down to trust.

The door to the car closed, and he was alone. He sat there, his head resting against the steering wheel. Damn, damn, damn.

Illya climbed the stairs leading to his apartment, feeling more tired then he should have. Arriving at his door, he fumbled for his keys, his muscles trembling. The pills! He’d forgotten to take them in all the excitement. He pulled the bottle out of his pocket, his fingers not cooperating. The top came off, the pills scattering as he slid to the floor. He just managed to get his communicator out and open, gasping, “Na-po-le-on,” before unconsciousness claimed him. 

Napoleon was just pulling out when his communicator beeped. A weak voice gasping his name met his ear. Pulling back to the curb, he slammed the car into park and rushed into the building, hastening full speed up the stairs. Illya lay slumped against the door, pills strewn around him. Scooping up the pills, his eyes spotted Illya's keys on the floor close by, so he picked them up and unlocked the door. 

Getting a grip on the slight Russian under the armpits, he dragged him into the apartment, into the bedroom, and onto the bed. Illya’s eyelids were fluttering uncontrollably. Napoleon rushed to get a glass of water before sliding behind his partner to prop him up. All he could think of was getting a grip on Illya's jaw to that he could pop one of the pills into his mouth and following it up with a little of the water to make sure it went down.

Illya choked and Napoleon let loose the breath he had been holding. The younger man’s muscles, which had started to draw up, soon began to relax. Eventually he drifted off to sleep and Napoleon took the time to loosen the blond’s clothing. After making sure that Illya was comfortable - after all, he was more then just his partner - Napoleon made his way into the living room. As he plopped down on the sofa he finally fell into an uneasy sleep after a bit of tossing and turning.

***  
Illya woke up blinking, sunlight shining in his face. His hand went to his chest. Flannel. He was in his own bed and wearing pajamas? His fuzzy mind reviewed the last events he remembered. He vaguely remembered being unable to take his pills, and then calling for help. Evidently help had arrived. 

Throwing back the blanket, Illya sat at the edge of the bed, his feet touching the wood floor. Gone were the muscle spasms, at least for now. He looked at the clock on the bedside table. One o’clock – where had the day gone. Carefully getting up, he headed for the bathroom. He needed to take another pill, and answer nature’s call.

Hunger gnawed at him. Running his hands through his hair as he headed for the kitchen, he came to a dead stop at the door leading to the living room. There, fast asleep on the sofa was Napoleon. The sofa was small, and the larger American’s head dangled off the edge: his feet hung over the arm. Illya moved closer planning to shake Napoleon’s foot. As he reached out for that foot, he froze as a gun suddenly appeared in his partner’s hand.

“Sorry,” said Napoleon, his face flushed with embarrassment, as he holstered his gun. 

“What are you doing here?”

“I wanted to make sure you were all right.” Sitting up Napoleon brought one hand to his neck, to rub the crick that had developed. He looked intently at the blond Russian. “Are you alright?”

The Russian shrugged. “I am fine.” Then he asked out of curiosity, “In all the years we have been partnered, this is the first time you have ever pulled a gun on me.”

“Force of habit – waking up in a strange place.”

Illya frowned as he slumped down in a nearby chair, “I do not consider my apartment strange. However, I am surprised you have second dates if this is how you greet them the next morning.” 

Napoleon flashed a devilish grin. “Well, if you had been in my arms when I woke up, it never would have happened.”

“Ah.” Illya shook his head. “You can go home now, Napoleon. As you can see I am quite well.”

Napoleon slipped on his shoes, then straightened up to adjust his rumpled suit as much as he could. Shifting his shoulders to get the kinks out, he walked to the door. “Are you sure you’re okay?” he asked one last time.

“Quite sure,” Illya insisted emphatically from right behind him. He hesitated before adding, “Thank you for taking … care of me.”

“No problem. Why don’t you just take the rest of the day off? I’m sure I can finish the report regarding last night without you,” Napoleon ordered, there were things he did not want in that report and Illya, being the perfectionist he is, might feel compelled to report everything.

Nodding, Illya shut the door behind his partner and stood there for some time, his head resting against the door.

***

After leaving Illya’s apartment, Napoleon went home to shower and change. Back at work, Napoleon sat at his desk working on the report of last night. Paperwork - the bane of every agent’s existence. How to say something in two hundred words without really saying anything? 

Just the facts – okay – my partner and I were entering an X-rated theater. No, no, he thought as he ripped the sheet up. How’s this – Illya and I just happened to spot… He ripped that sheet up as well. How could he explain what they were doing in that theater? His head dropped to the desk in frustration.

“Having problems?” the amused voice of his partner filtered in.

Napoleon looked up. “I thought I gave you the day off?”

“You did,” Illya said as he handed over their completed report. Napoleon glanced through it, relieved to note that Illya had a perfectly legitimate excuse for their being there without going into a great deal of detail. Then he glanced at the last page. It was not part of the report, but a request for transfer – to section eight, Research and Development. Napoleon looked up in surprise. “I don’t understand.”

Illya sat down on the leather bench, placed between the two computer banks, their lights blinking off and on. He looked down at his clasped hands. “I would think after last night it would be perfectly obvious. I am a liability.” 

Napoleon set aside the report. “No you’re not. If you keep taking your pills …”

Illya shook his head. “What if I forget, or there is no time? What if the pills stop working?” He shook his head, his eyes beseeching.

“Impossible. U.N.C.L.E. needs you … hell, I need you. Not as a lab technician, but as an agent and my partner.” Napoleon let out a deep breath. “How about this. Why don’t we make it a temporary transfer … until a cure is found?” 

Illya nodded his agreement.

Napoleon placed his pen to the paper to place his signature, when he paused. “There is just one other thing.” He glanced up, catching his partner’s eyes. “I want you to move in with me.”

“Hoooo-no,” Illya said, shaking his blond head and leaning back against the wall with his arms crossed, sure he knew his partner’s intention.

Oddly enough he was wrong. Napoleon raised his hand, palm out, stemming the flow of words from Illya. “Hear me out. You want to transfer from Section Two because of last night. I don’t want a recurrence any more than you do. That is why I want you to move in.” And it was true, nothing more – nothing less.

“And where will I sleep?” the Russian demanded. His glare stating ‘not in your bed’ though his voice did not. “You have but the one bedroom.”

Napoleon’s mind raced. His bed would have been nice, he thought with regret, but not until Illya was whole and well again. The couch was out – too uncomfortable. “The study.”

“Your study does not have a bed,” Illya pointed out.

Napoleon shrugged. “So we take out the desk and put one in. And there are wall to wall bookcases.” He saw the Russian’s resolve waver just as the intercom on his desk sounded. 

“Mr. Solo? Mr. Waverly would like to see you and Mr. Kuryakin right away.”

Napoleon hit the switch. “On our way.”

***

Alexander Waverly looked up from filling his pipe as his two top agents entered the room, just the way they always had a hundred times before. His eyes searched the Russian agent’s face for signs that his illness was affecting him adversely and found nothing, he was glad to note.

Solo handed over their report and sat down in his usual seat. Kuryakin, likewise, took his seat one chair over. Both men waited patiently for their superior to begin. 

Sending a file that lay on the revolving table around, Waverly leaned back as he brought a match to his pipe. His sharp gaze watched as his senior agent reviewed the contents of the folder. Once his pipe was going to his satisfaction, he spoke, “As you can see, the dead THRUSH agent was a low level courier.”

“We have definitely identified him, then?” Kuryakin asked.

“Oh, yes,” Waverly responded with a frown. “Mr. Foster however has proven to be another matter.” He flicked a switch on the table before turning around to the monitor on the wall. The screen lit up, showing an interrogation in process. Two burley Section Two agents were hounding a small, quivering man. Waverly shook his head, turning to face his two agents. “So far he has refused to say anything useful.”

“What about truth serum?” Napoleon asked, his gaze going from the screen to his boss.

“It appears that Mr. Foster reacts very badly to our current truth serums,” Waverly said disgruntledly between puffs. “Medical has advised against any further use.”

“Perhaps I should talk to him,” Illya said grimly as he cracked his knuckles.

Napoleon chuckled. “He’d probably pee in his pants,” he murmured aside to Illya. Focusing his attention on his superior Napoleon suggested, “No, I think I should be the one to talk to him.”

“If you think it will do any good, you have my permission,” Waverly said.

Solo nodded as he got up and left the room.

Turning back to survey the screen, the two men watched as the dark-haired young agent entered the interrogation room. A warm smile for his men, he gestured for them to leave. Waverly reached back, turning a knob adjusting the volume.

“So, how have you been treated?” Napoleon asked politely as he pulled out a chair to sit down.

Watery grey eyes peered accusingly at him from behind thick glasses. “T-ter-terribly,” the thinning-haired man stuttered. 

“I’m truly sorry about that,” Napoleon said sincerely. “However, we really need your help, Mr. Foster.”

“W-Wi-William,” stuttered Foster timidly, his eyes fluttered rapidly. Napoleon’s sympathetic attitude seemed to be having a calming affect on him.

Napoleon smiled uncertainly. Was the man flirting with him? “William. We just need to know … what you were doing in that theater? ”

“Wh-wha-what were y-you doing th-there?” Foster countered boldly.

Napoleon frowned, agitated. “I’m here to ask questions, not answer them.”

“I I’d rather no-not say.” Foster, squirmed, his face turning crimson. 

Napoleon let out a sigh. “What were you passing to the THRUSH agent?”

Foster blinked, “Pas-pass? He-he, seemed like a-a ni-nice man. I-I’d never me-met him before. We-we were just tal-talking.”

Was it possible? Napoleon stared at the quivering man in front of him. “Wild card.” The effect was electrifying. The man in front of him turned pale, let out a squeak and passed out, falling out of his chair. Napoleon stood up, looking over the table before turning his gaze to the invisible camera and giving an elaborate shrug.

“Well, that was no help,” Illya said sarcastically to Mr. Waverly as he flicked the switch closing down the TV monitor. Waverly could only agree.

***

“Well, that was a bust,” Napoleon said as he sat down upon his return. “What do we know about him?”

Illya removed his glasses from his pocket, picked up the folder and read, “William James Foster, age forty-six. Education - majored in biochemistry, did his thesis on lichenology if that means anything. Minor in radio telemetry. Started working with U.N.C.L.E. 1959. Unmarried.” He closed the folder.

“Not much,” Napoleon said, brought his hand to his temple hoping to massage away the headache that had suddenly appeared.

Illya, his arms crossed on the table, leaned closer. “Perhaps I should talk to him.”

“Harrumph, Mr. Kuryakin, I do not want you anywhere near Foster. Is that understood?” Mr. Waverly ordered, pointing the end of his pipe at the Russian agent.

“Yes, sir,” Illya answered looking properly chastised.

“If you have nothing further, sir,” Napoleon said as he rose from his seat, Kuryakin following suit.

“Mr. Solo, I would like a word with you before you go,” Waverly stated.

“Yes, sir,” Napoleon responded. His eyes caught his partner’s quizzical gaze and he shrugged before returning to his chair as his partner left the room. Waverly perused the report the two men had brought in. Solo sat, crossed his legs and waited patiently.

Mr. Waverly said nothing, waiting for the door to slide shut as the younger agent left. “Mr. Solo, I see you have approved Mr. Kuryakin’s transfer to section eight.”

“Temporary transfer,” Solo corrected. “Yes, sir. Once his health improves, I’d like to get him back into Section Two.”

Waverly closed the folder, puffed on his pipe perusing his own thoughts. “And if his health does not improve?”

Napoleon had not wanted to think about that option. “Well, sir, I suppose the transfer would turn permanent.” He looked his superior in the eye. “In which case I would request a transfer to Section One.”

Waverly nodded as he puffed on his pipe. 

***

Another episode of weakness was all it took to convince Illya that moving in with Solo was essential. “Either you stay with someone or you stay in the infirmary,” the doctor had stated.

So dragging his right leg a little, Illya followed Napoleon into his apartment. Napoleon, who was carrying his suitcase, herded him into the study. He stood in the doorway, surveying the room. Gone was the desk, replaced with a bed. The bed, not quite a double and made of mahogany, covered in a rich fabric and an abundance of pillows looked soft and inviting to the touch. The wall to wall bookcases, filled to the brim, held familiar tomes. He limped over to pull one such book from the shelf, reverently caressing the spine. His books – here? 

Illya opened the book, turning the pages. His gaze went from the book to his partner, leaning against the doorway, his hands jammed into his pants pockets. Napoleon’s face held a hint of trepidation as if not sure how the Russian would react. He returned his gaze to the book; a smile lit his face. “Thank you, my friend.”

Napoleon nodded unable to speak. Slowly he turned away, letting his partner become accustomed to his new surroundings. It had pained him to watch the change the last occurrence had wrought. Illya’s mind sometimes was unable to control the trembling of his muscles. 

The two men’s days soon fell into a relaxing pattern. Illya telling himself he could quickly become accustomed to such decadence. Food was no problem. Upon learning that Napoleon had taken him in, the lovelies of U.N.C.L.E. sent meals over daily. The two agents had never eaten so well. The study became the Russian’s sanctuary, where he could read or be alone if he wanted to.

That alone was incredible. Napoleon never made any attempts to invade Illya’s privacy, always remaining outside the door, asking permission to come in should he need to borrow anything. 

Their days followed the same pattern. They would wake up, shower and shave, have breakfast, Napoleon pretending not to notice when Illya’s hand shook so hard he could not hold his cup, and then make their way to U.N.C.L.E. headquarters. Once there their first stop was medical, for a sample of Illya’s blood to be taken. 

“I wish they would just take all my blood and be done with it,” Illya muttered after a week of this. Then they would separate, Illya to work in the lab, and Napoleon to his office with plans on catching up the paperwork that had piled up. Six o’clock found them back at Napoleon’s apartment; another nourishing meal provided, then music, TV, or reading. All very companionable. Illya for his part pretended not to notice the many showers the American seemed to need.

***

Illya reclined on the sofa, one arm behind his head, reading a book as it rested on his stomach. The hand behind his head would move every once in awhile to turn a page.

Napoleon standing behind the sofa tilted his head. “What are you reading?’’

Illya tilted the book toward him, giving Napoleon a clear view of the title. He couldn’t resist a smile as Napoleon winched. The subject matter was too dry for Napoleon’s taste. Napoleon was wandering through the apartment restless. For the past three weeks, he had not gone out once. Something was going to have to give and soon.

Illya laid the book flat on his chest. “Napoleon, why don’t you call one of the many names in that little black book of yours and go out?”

“And leave you alone?”

“I will be fine.” During the past three weeks, except for the spasms his muscles sometimes gave, nothing untoward had happened. “In fact, I could do without you for one night.” 

Napoleon nodded reluctantly, not really wanting to leave Illya alone, but knowing his partner was right. He was glad that Illya was staying with him, but he was finding it most trying. His hands kept wanting to reach out and stoke the silky blond mane and he dare not look at Illya when he would emerge from the bathroom in the mornings. 

Napoleon headed for his bedroom and sat down on the edge of his bed. He mentally went though all the names he might call and decided on one least like the man in the other room. Picking up the phone, he dialed a number he knew by heart. Carolyn had been delighted with his invitation and enthusiastic as she enthralled him with promises of a memorable evening. Oddly enough he hung up the phone, not with a feeling of relief, but one of dread.

The next night, Illya inspected him and found him presentable. Something Napoleon didn’t appreciate. “You’re sure you’ll be all right?” Napoleon asked for the umpteenth time.

“Positive,” The Russian responded as he adjusted Napoleon’s tie with a critical eye, though in truth he was for from positive. The past three weeks had been hard, not only on his partner. The American’s obvious caring was slowly tearing away at his resolve. “Go,” he ordered, practically pushing Napoleon out of the door.

Carolyn, dark radiant hair, dark sultry eyes, was more than pleased to see Napoleon. Her head held majestically high, she placed her hand possessively on Napoleon’s arm as they entered the restaurant and were shown to their table, aware of the admiring glances the male population of the restaurant sent her way. She slid provocatively into her seat, her head tilted attractively as she took the menu the maître d' offered. She knew she looked fabulous. She had taken special care to see that she did. Rumor at headquarters had it that Napoleon had not squired anyone for weeks and she was sure tonight would be very special indeed. Napoleon could always be counted on for an exciting evening in the bedroom, and she herself was confident that she could match him pleasure for pleasure. 

Tonight however Napoleon’s mind seemed elsewhere, in spite of all Carolyn’s attentions. Her intimate touches and bare foot running up his leg under the table went unnoticed. She almost threw her napkin down in disgust when halfway through the meal Napoleon got up and excused himself. 

Napoleon found a quiet spot behind a rubber tree and pulled out his communicator. “Open Channel H, Illya, come in.”

“What?” came the impatient reply.

Napoleon looked at the communicator in his hand and smiled. “I just wanted to see if you were okay.”

There was silence for a moment. “I am quite all right, Napoleon. Will you please let me get back to my reading and you can get back to … whatever it is you have to get back to.”

The connection broke, and Napoleon sighed as he put his pen away before heading back to his table and Carolyn.

****

Napoleon panicking pushed the door open, leaving the key still in the lock, searching the living area with his eyes for his partner. “Illya. Illya,” he called. He had hurried back to the apartment, leaving a stunned Carolyn, after Illya had not responded to his third call to check up on him. His gaze then went to the open door of the study – empty. 

“You are home early,” the garbled reply came from the kitchen. Napoleon turned his startled gaze to the kitchen doorway, from which the slight Russian, dressed in pajamas was exiting. In one hand Illya held a half eaten sandwich, in the other a glass of milk. With a gaping mouth, Napoleon watched as his partner turned on the TV and sat down on the sofa, finishing off his sandwich. 

Shutting his mouth and his eyes, Napoleon pulled the key from the lock, leaning against the door shutting it. Relief flooded through him. When Illya had failed to answer he thought … he didn’t know what he thought. He remembered Carolyn’s face as he made his excuses, leaving money for a cab, telling the maître d' to put anything she ordered on his tab and rushing to his car, speeding back to the apartment. Pushing away from the door, he muttered something about needing to shower as he dispiritedly headed toward his bedroom.

Illya sent a sly glance over his shoulder, a twitch of one side of his mouth showed his amusement. He leaned back into the sofa cushion, took a last swallow of the milk, thinking that one day he might take pity and put Napoleon out of his misery. 

***

The following week

Napoleon leaned forward to have the dark-haired beauty at the receptionist desk pin on his badge. “Has Illya left for the day, Mari?”

Mari turned to her clipboard, flipping through it. “No he hasn’t checked out yet,” she answered, her smile enticing.

Blowing her a kiss, Solo entered U.N.C.L.E. headquarters in search of his partner. Nodding to fellow agents as he passed them, he wondered why Illya was still here. It was after six, perhaps he could talk Illya into going out to eat. He disliked eating alone, and he didn’t feel like calling anyone at the last minute. First, he would turn in his report. Better yet, find Illya, confirm plans, then write the report.

Napoleon checked Illya’s office, drumming his fingers on the door jam on finding it vacant. That left the lab. He did an abrupt about face. Heading in the labs direction, his mind on which restaurant the Russian might like.

Napoleon was disappointed to find the lab was in darkness, except for a small light to the back. He had turned to leave when he spotted a pair of familiar shoes peeking from behind a lab counter. Hurrying closer, he found his partner stretched out upon the floor, one arm flung above his head, unconscious. His relief when he checked for a pulse and found one was palpable. Pulling a phone down from the counter, he dialed medical, mentally cursing Illya for forgetting his pill.

Napoleon sat down on the floor next to his partner, brushing the blond fringe from his face. He reached for and found the hand Illya had flung over his head and held onto it until help arrived.

***

The doctor’s face was grim. “The medication is no longer working.

Napoleon stood there stunned. “Isn’t there something you can do?”

“Without further tests, no.”

Napoleon paced the floor, looking through the glass window at his partner lying in a fetal position on the hospital bed. “I don’t understand, didn’t they get anything out of Foster?”

Before the doctor could respond, Lisa Rogers marched in, her dark hair immaculately in place, the yellow turtleneck, and short black skirt emphasizing her perfect shape. She stopped directly in front of Solo, her lovely face devoid of emotion. “Mr. Waverly would like to see you now.”

“Can it wait?” Napoleon snapped, irritated at the interruption. 

Her sharp eyes lit into his. “You know better.” She walked to the door, stopping and turning to make sure he followed.

With a sigh of resignation, Napoleon nodded to the doctor, his look saying their discussion was far from over before following Miss Rogers out.

Lisa stopped in front of Waverly’s door, stepping aside to let Solo enter, which he did, automatically going to his usual place. Mr. Waverly sat looking through folders set in front of him. “Mr. Solo, so nice of you to drop in,” he said dryly, without looking up. Napoleon did not reply. “Your report if you please.” 

In less than ten minutes, Napoleon managed to make his report - short and concise. Waverly had leaned back in his chair, puffing away on his eternal pipe, his sharp eyes taking in not only what Solo was saying but his body language as well. Taking the pipe from his mouth, Waverly stated, “Perhaps they are right, you and Mr. Kuryakin are too close.”

Napoleon, chewed on the tip of his thumb, muttering under his breath, “Not nearly close enough.” which earned him a sharp look from Waverly. He blushed, not having meant for his statement to be overheard. He wondered at Waverly’s change in subject and who the hell ‘they’ were. Moving his hand to his lap, Napoleon straightened and cleared his throat before saying, “Sir, I would like to apply for transfer to Section One.”

Alexander Waverly stood up abruptly, slamming down his pipe, breaking it. “No, Mr. Solo. You will not. I need you where you are, doing what you do,” he stated harshly, before getting up and walking over to the only window in all of U.N.C.L.E. Headquarters. Waverly didn’t often lose his temper, but the situation was becoming intolerable. Calming down he continued. “I also need Mr. Kuryakin up and in working order,” he said quietly, his hands behind his back, talking to himself. “We have used our best veridical and still know nothing we did not know one month ago. 

“Foster?” Napoleon turned to face his superior, his interest showing.

“Yes, Mr. Solo. Foster.” Waverly turned back to his senior agent. “Either the man is totally ignorant or …” Waverly brought his pipe to his lips, disgusted to find that it was no longer usable. The old man pulled a card out of his pocket and looked at it as he turned back to his senior agent. Sighing, Waverly shook his head. “We appear to be back at square one. This, Mr. Solo, is our only clue and your next assignment. Use whatever resources you need to, but find out what this means.” He tossed the wild card onto the table in front of Solo.

Napoleon reached over and picked up the card, studying it intently. Running his fingers along its edges, he stood up, pocketing it. “Yes, sir. Right away.” His face serious, Solo nodded his appreciation to his boss before leaving the room.

With renewed purpose, Napoleon set out for his office, his mind already running through everything he would need. He contacted Section Eight and requested all the documentation they currently had. He also requested someone to pick up the card for further study. Napoleon was surprised when Mark Peters, himself, arrived with the information. While Simpson was effectively head of Section Eight, Peters was head over the research part of Research and Development. A couple of years older than the CEA, Peters was more inclined toward the research phase, puzzles being his specialty.

“Sorry there’s not much there, NS,” Mark Peters said. “I heard the medication we developed isn’t working anymore. We’ll have everyone working around the clock perfecting a new formula. I’ll run some more tests on this card, though lord knows what more we can do. IK is a good man, he doesn’t deserve this.” Admittedly he didn’t know the head of Section Two as well as he knew his partner. Illya Kuryakin often could be found in his section, his quirky ability to see things others missed often came in handy. 

It rankled Peter’s sense of pride that his section could have missed something important. When the card was sent to his section, he had delegated the testing of it to one of the many competent lab technicians. This time he would do the tests himself. If there was anything to find, he would find it.

“Thanks, Mark. I appreciate it.”

Solo’s mind was already on his next move as Peters left the room with the card carefully put away in a plastic sack. Foster was the next order of business. It irritated Napoleon that while his friend and partner had been suffering, Foster had been treated with kid gloves. He understood that under U.N.C.L.E.’s charters torture was frowned upon. That, however, was now about to change, he thought ominously.

As he reached the room where Foster was incarcerated, Napoleon turned his customary charm on the two guards. “Has he given you any trouble?”

“No, sir. Scared of his own shadow, that one is.”

“I tell you what, you two go for some coffee? Hmmm?”

Both men responded with a enthusiastic, “Yes, sir.” And barely managing to keep from saluting the head of Section Two. Napoleon smiled at the thought as the men made their way down the hall. The smile quickly faded as he turned to the door and hit the switch.

Foster uncrossed his legs and put away the newspaper he had been perusing, “T-to what do I o-owe this v-visit,” he said as he got up off the sofa to approach the agent.

Napoleon turned around one hundred and eighty degrees, noting that it was more guest quarters than cell, backhanding the man across the face hard enough to drop him to the floor.

Foster leaned up on one elbow, his other hand wiping the blood from his mouth. Gone was the rabbity look. He got to his feet, his eyes hard. “Hardly the way U.N.C.L.E. treats prisoners, is it?” he asked, his stutter a thing of the past.

Napoleon, eyes black with anger, grabbed Foster by his shirt front, pulling him up. “I want to know all your little secrets,” he said through gritted teeth, “and I want to know them now.”

Foster’s laughter earned him a right hook to the jaw that sent him careening onto the sofa. Gripping his jaw, he responded, “I understand your little Russian buddy is in a bad way.”

Napoleon stood over him, his fist clenched. “I want to know what you did and why Illya?”

“I didn’t do anything. As to why Mr. Kuryakin,” Foster smiled though it hurt his jaw. “That was just the luck of the draw. It could have just as easily been you.” Then he made the mistake of laughing again. It was the last laugh he would have for some time.

***

The two guards returned from their coffee break to find an extremely angry Solo, who brushed past them. They looked into the open doorway in wide-eyed amazement at the bloody pulp of what was left of Foster. “Oh shit!” one of them said.

It took every ounce of iron will Napoleon had to curb his anger. The last statement Foster had made kept ringing in his ear. “There is no cure.” No cure. No cure. Taking some deep breaths, Napoleon made his way to medical; checking his watch he realized it was late in the evening. Entering the dimly lit room, he quietly crossed over to where his partner lay. 

Blue eyes opened at his approach, “Nap … N-Nap …” The frustration to get the word out was evident in the blond man’s face. 

“I’m here,” Napoleon said softly, as he took the smaller man’s hand in his.

The younger agent was frustrated by his inability to articulate. His muscles twitched as he, with great effort, brought the hand holding his to his lips, letting action speak where he could not. The spark of understanding in Napoleon’s eyes let him know his message had been received and Illya finally closed his eyes, letting sleep claim him.

A cough from the doorway let Napoleon know they were not alone. 

“Sorry to interrupt you, Mr. Solo, but I would like to see you in my office,” Dr. Benjamin Cooper said.

Napoleon gently placed Illya’s hand upon his chest with a final pat before turning to follow the doctor to his office.

Dr. Cooper sat down in his chair, studying the impassive face of the head of Section Two. “Am I going to have to pull you from this assignment?” he asked, having already received reports on Foster’s condition.

Taking a deep breath, Solo replied, “No. It will not happen again.”

“It had better not,” the doctor stated before dropping the subject. “Now, about Kuryakin … not only is the medication not working but now his mind has been affected. His ability to communicate compromised; to even think properly has been severely jeopardized.” 

Napoleon closed his eyes, hiding the pain he felt. Illya prided himself on that unique brain of his. With his eidetic memory, he was if not an expert, at least knowledgeable about a great many subjects.

“Given time …” Cooper continued.

Time! Does Illya have any time? 

“There is no cure,” Napoleon said abruptly. He could still hear Foster boasting in his ears. Gloating how Wild Card was the code name of the operation. Wild card, luck of the draw … There was no knowing how someone would react to the drug, hence the test. The fact that Illya was the first test subject was chance. Napoleon stopped, drawing in another deep breath, controlling his emotions. He paced the room, his mind grasping at something Illya had said recently. “Can’t you just replace all his blood? Get whatever it is they injected him with out of his system?”

Dr. Cooper shook his head. “Even if we had done that when he first was brought in, it wouldn’t have worked. Mr. Solo, I want to know everything, and I mean everything that you noticed when you first got to him.”

Napoleon sat down wearily, marshalling his thoughts, he dully went over every step – from the time he opened the freezer to the time he managed to get Illya back to headquarters and medical.

Dr Cooper sat nodding as he took it all in. A glimmer of an idea taking root. “I may have an idea. Let me think it over, discuss it with a few colleagues of mine and get back with you.” 

The speaker on his desk came alive. “Mr. Solo is wanted in Research.”

Peters looked up as Solo entered the lab area. In front of him on the lab table were two identical and very thin cards. “How did we miss it the first time? Shoddy work on our part.” He scowled. “There was a micro chip in between the two cards. I have the computers interfacing with it now. Hopefully, that will tell us something. I’ve already sent in a report to Mr. Waverly.”

The speaker on the wall came alive. “Mr. Solo is wanted in Medical.”

With an elaborate shrug, Napoleon left the lab thinking, with mild and fond exasperation, Illya, you had better be worth all this trouble. 

Before Solo could step into the office, Dr. Cooper started speaking, “We may be on to something.”

“That was fast.”

“We aim to please.” Cooper waited for Solo to sit down before continuing. “I think – and my colleagues agree – that the best thing to do is put Mr. Kuryakin back in the deep freeze.”

Napoleon stared. Was the man serious?

“We feel his symptoms only began to develop when he was … ah … defrosted. We plan to put Mr. Kuryakin in suspended animation, giving us more time to work on a cure.”

“Is that possible?” This was sounding more like something out of Buck Rogers every moment.

The doctor was looking smug. “Actually, it’s just in the developmental stage, but yes it is possible.”

“I don’t know,” Napoleon sounded doubtful. “The idea of Illya being a guinea pig is – unsettling.”

“He already is a guinea pig,” Cooper stated. “Napoleon, this may be his only chance.”

Napoleon insisted that they discuss it with Illya first. Dr. Cooper wasn’t really sure how much Illya would be able to understand, but agreed. Illya’s feeble nod was all the incentive Napoleon needed to reluctantly agree. “When do you plan to do it?” Napoleon asked.

“As soon as possible.”

So a very tired Solo, having been up more than twenty-four hours, stood to the side as his partner, unclothed, was placed in the metal shell that would place him in suspended animation. The steel tube reminded him of nothing more then a coffin. When the top was drawn down, he looked through the glass top. Illya’s blue eyes, the apprehension they held fading as they caught his. One hand came up unsteadily to touch the glass top, and Napoleon brought his hand to mirror it, sending out a silent prayer. Illya’s eyes closed as the apparatus was started and the inside of the capsule fogged up.

***

Days later, Napoleon was back in his office. Dr. Cooper had threatened to sedate him and Waverly finally had to order his chief agent to get some sleep, with the dictate that he would accomplish nothing if he did not take care of himself, so he’d stayed home a few days. 

Slowly but surely, they were making progress. Section Eight was sending him information on top of information. The only problem was he couldn’t understand most of it. Illya was the one with the technical turn of mind.

It’s a shame Illya’s in the deep freeze, he could explain this to me, Napoleon thought with frustration as he ran his fingers through his hair. Inside his head came the softly accented message. 

Must I do everything. 

He sat up straight. “Illya?” he asked aloud. 

He could feel the soft ripple of laughter - You called. 

Napoleon closed his eyes and concentrated. Are you okay? How do you feel?

Illya’s voice filtered into his brain. I … I don’t feel … anything. As for if I’m okay… I’m not sure. I think so. It’s rather strange; I seem able to see what you see. Feel what you feel, my friend. Did you know your mind is rather untidy? 

There was silence and Napoleon was just beginning to wonder if he had imagined the whole thing when – Don’t you find it a bit odd that you can hear me in your head- echoed. Napoleon almost laughed with relief. 

Odd, smodd, I’m just happy I can hear you at all. Not questioning his infamous luck, Napoleon was almost giddy with delight. This stuff is way over my head.

How odd, I’ve never found it a problem, the voice in his head gloated.

In that case, explain this damn thing to me. Napoleon thought back. 

The familiar sound of Illya’s laughter echoed-Well, shall we start with what’s before you?

With a heartfelt sigh, Napoleon once again turned his attention to the myriad of folders on his desk. His eyes going over all the information once again, while his mind stayed grateful that someone understood what was written.

NAPOLEON!

The shout in his head woke him from a sound sleep and the dream he’d been having of being in bed holding a naked Russian in his arms. Napoleon checked his watch, it was only mid-afternoon.

Really, Napoleon. Get your mind out of the gutter. I need to see that last bit again. 

Had he really been glad to have that tyrannical Russian in his head? Guiltily, Napoleon had to admit he was. “Sorry, how long was I out?”

Not long. The agitated tone changed to one of amusement. You appeared in need of a break.

Solo sniffed, then he raised his arm and sniffed again. “I need more then a break. I need a shower and fresh clothes. My ability to work in confined spaces seems to have been compromised.”

Another bout of laughter tickled Napoleon’s mind, causing him to smile fondly to himself as he let his eyes wonder to the page in question.

Illya’s voice was puzzled - That can’t be right?

What couldn’t be right? Napoleon reread the last lines. “You did say he had a minor in radio telemetry,” he said thoughtfully.

Silence.

I can’t believe you remembered that. It would explain a good bit.

Napoleon contacted Section Eight and had someone do a scan on Illya’s blood. Explaining why would involve admitting that Napoleon’s knowledge on the subject was more extensive then he let on. It was better than telling the technicians that the idea came from Illya. If what he and Illya suspected was true it would indeed explain a lot.

Napoleon checked his locker for a clean shirt, belatedly remembering that he had already used it … how long ago. He was losing track of time, he thought wearily. Somewhere in the back of his mind he could hear Illya humming the Volga Boat song and felt a ting of guilt. He could at least go home to change, while Illya …. “What’s it like?” Napoleon asked.

The humming stopped - It was sort of like being unconscious, until I found you. You seem to … ground me. 

Napoleon grinned. “Always glad to be of assistance.”

The moment Napoleon shut the door of Del Floria’s behind him, he knew something was different. “Illya?” he called and when he got no response. “Damn.” He debated turning back against cleanliness and cleanliness won. Rushing to his car, planning to make this the quickest trip ever, he wondered if thinking he’d heard Illya in his head was wishful thinking.

Hurrying through his apartment door, he reset his alarm system in record time, slinging off his jacket and letting it fall where it may. His tie, holster and gun were slung on the bed, and the rest dropped to the floor as he entered the bathroom. Not taking the time to let the water warm up, he entered his shower and soaped his body, rinsing before the water even got hot. Back in his bedroom, he grabbed a shirt from the closet, underwear and socks from a drawer and the first suit his hands encountered from the closet. Forget the tie.

The entire drive back, he worried that Illya would no longer be able to communicate with him.  
Slamming the car into park in front of Del Floria’s, he flew down the stairs and into the changing room, without even greeting the man behind the press. Using the hook to open the secret entrance he heard POLEON! loud and clear causing him to wince. 

The receptionist looked up at him with concern as she placed his badge on his jacket. “Mr. Solo, are you all right?” she asked as she handed him a report from Section Eight.

Napoleon took a deep breath, letting the panic he’d been feeling die down. “I’m fine,” he said giving her a charming smile, before entering U.N.C.L.E.’s maze of steel corridors.

If the loudness of Illya’s voice in his head was any indication, he wasn’t the only one who had panicked. “Must you shout?” he muttered as he made his way past other agents in the hall.

Sorry, but I wasn’t sure you could hear me. Illya’s voice was much calmer - It was rather unnerving when you left.

Nodding as he passed another agent, Napoleon entered an elevator. “Oh, I heard you alright,” he said through gritted teeth. “I take it you missed me.”

Napoleon heard a distinct sniff then - What’s that in your hand? Napoleon opened the folder he held. “Hmmm, looks like we are on the right track.” 

Yes, it appears we are. This report indicates an electromagnetic trace element in my blood.

“Which is currently sending a signal directly to the card we got off of that THRUSH agent,” Napoleon concluded as he left the elevator. “Data on your condition.”

This is very advanced technology.

“And who do we know uses advanced technology?” Solo asked, as he strolled down the hall, tapping the folder against his thigh.

“THRUSH,” both said at the same time. Exactly where are you headed? Illya’s voice asked.

“To my office to shave. Do you mind?” Napoleon asked, rubbing his unshaven jaw. He had been in such a hurry to get back that he had neglected to shave.

As a matter of fact, I do. That report contained data, certain bits of information, which leads me to believe there is a possibility of reversing my condition. But to do that we need to head for the lab.

Napoleon stopped dead. “Couldn’t you leave that to Section Eight?’

Napoleon, this is my life at stake. At this point the only one I trust to use this information correctly is you.”

Oddly pleased, Napoleon turned back and reentered the elevator, pushing the button that would take him to the lab. “You do know my experience with chemistry is meager?”

But you have me to help.

Nodding to himself, Napoleon thought that just might make a difference.

Getting off the elevator, Napoleon headed for the lab, unaware of the looks he was garnering from his fellow agents, who were used to seeing their CEA in a more well-groomed state. 

“Okay, the electromagnetic signature is sending a signal to the card, but that doesn’t explain how I can hear you in my head?”

Perhaps it is your magnetic personality.

Entering the lab, a lab technician hurried over. “Mr. Solo, can I help you?”

“No, thank you,” Napoleon said distractedly. He made his way to the lab bench that Illya could usually be found at, setting down the folder on the counter top. He was having a hard time concentrating on what Illya was saying and remaining aware of what was going on around him. 

You’ll need to put on a lab coat. 

“Yes, mother,” he muttered as he took off his jacket and replaced it with Illya’s smaller lab coat.

We need the latest information on that card.

Napoleon turned around. “Hey, you,” he called to the young lab technician. 

His name is George. 

“George, where the latest intel on the wild card?”

“You’ll have to get that from Mr. Peters,” the lab tech stammered.

“Well, get him,” Napoleon ordered. 

Gently, gently, Napoleon. These are not Section Two agents, they tend to jump when yelled at. 

“I’m sorry, George. Would you please ask Mark if I could see the latest information retrieved from the wild card?” George turned away to go find his boss. “Better?” muttered Napoleon. 

Much. While we are waiting you can get the bunsen burner going. 

Napoleon muttered to himself as he reached first for one vial of liquid, paused to listen to Illya’s advice then switched to pick up another. This was Illya’s area of expertise and Napoleon concentrated on his task unmindful of how it might look to someone not in on who was really running the show. 

Not that one. The next one.

The next hour or so was spent with Napoleon reaching for first one bottle then another, mixing to his partner’s precise specifications, following the younger man’s orders to a T. Finally - “Is this supposed to turn purple?”

A loud humph sounded from behind Solo, startling him so that he almost dropped the test tube.

“An explanation please, Mr. Solo,” Alexander Waverly demanded.

“Ummm, errr.” Where was the Russian when he needed him? Napoleon held out the vial. “I think I have a cure, sir.”

The vial was taken and the serum checked and double checked. And found acceptable. During that time Illya remained silent. All of Section Eight expressed amazement that a Section Two agent was able to successfully develop a workable serum.

Napoleon did a lot of pacing, while this was going on. He watched from the side of the room as the temperature surrounding the Russian was lowered. His heart was in his mouth as the lid to Illya’s tube was raised and the shot given. He snuck closer and almost passed out when the blue eyes opened and caught his. The smiles on the doctors’ faces said it all. The serum appeared to be a success. Of course it would be days before they knew for sure. 

 

***

The two men entered Solo’s apartment, Napoleon setting the alarm while Illya did a security check. Napoleon was determined to finally act on Illya’s dream, which had now become his. After what they had been through, it seemed only fair. It was going to take some time to get use to not having Illya in his head, but being able to touch his partner was infinitely better. 

They came together in the center of the room, eyeing each other as if for the first time. Napoleon led the way to the bedroom, turned, and reached out to caress the Russian’s check. “May I kiss you?” he asked, his voice husky. Illya nodded.

Their faces came together slowly, warily, as if each was afraid the other would pull back. 

To Napoleon, for whom kissing was nothing new, kissing a man was. Kissing had never exactly fitted in with his former liaisons with men. He closed his eyes, letting the sensation flow over him. Enjoying the feeling of another man’s mouth against his, not just another man’s but Illya’s. Suddenly Illya’s hands were tangled in his hair, his mouth invading, searching, seeking, finding. Napoleon, who had kissed many, had never been kissed like this. He was amazed at how overwhelmed and conquered he felt with a single kiss.

Breathing hard, the two men separated, Napoleon needing to free himself and his partner from their restricting clothing. Jacket shrugged off, he was loosening his tie, when the Russian gripped his shirt and ripped it open, buttons flying everywhere. It didn’t matter; his own hands were pulling the knit shirt from Illya’s pants, pulling it over his head, throwing it aside. Slacks and briefs soon followed. 

Sitting on the side of the bed, Napoleon pulled his partner to him, his hands roaming up and down his partner’s back, his lips covering a dusky nipple, licking, nipping, and sucking. He could feel a tremor going though Illya as he gripped his rounded hind end and pulled his body closer, between his thighs, feeling the aroused organ against his chest. His mouth traveled to the other nipple, giving it the same treatment as the first. Illya’s hands were gripping his hair, guiding him. He could hear the Russian’s moans, as he kneaded the round flesh of his buttocks, the sound exciting, arousing him as he had never been aroused before.

Napoleon’s mouth left the stiff nubs, as his gaze went to the leaking cock pressed against him. Pushing Illya away, just enough so his tongue reached out to taste the pearly liquid leaking from the rosy tip. Salty, spicy, Illya. He craved more, his mouth engulfing the swollen cock as Illya’s hand gripped his hair, guiding him. While Napoleon’s mouth was working, sucking, his hands were roaming the soft ass, caressing the outer thighs, one hand moving to the inside of the Russian’s thigh sliding up, finding the rounded sacs. He silently apologized to his partner, whose moans of abandonment ripped through him, as he brought his mouth to the round balls, sucking each in turn.

“Do you honestly know how much you’re loved?” Napoleon breathed into his partner’s groin.

Illya pulled his face upward. “I think I do.”

“No, you can’t possibly know.” He looked up into the serene blue eyes.

“But I do. Now finish me,” the Russian commanded imperiously.

A grin spread across the American’s face as his mouth went back to its task. Moans were once again voiced and Napoleon risked a glance upward. 

Illya’s body was arched, his eyes shut, and his head thrown back. His hands were kneading Napoleon’s shoulders. One more suck and the deed was done. Illya sank down in a state of depletion. A feeling of contentment settled over Napoleon. His Russian ice pop had thawed.


End file.
